The surgeon hesitated mid-motion, his hands pausing slightly as he looked up.
"Don Bellandi," he said cautiously, "with the Signora's current condition… she really needs rest."
Dominic paused for a brief second, as if considering it.
Then he replied, curt and dismissive.
"She won't die."
The surgeon's expression stiffened instantly. A thin sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead. He lowered his head and said nothing more, not daring to argue. In this house, a medical opinion weighed nothing against a direct order.
But the next day came.
And Dominic didn't show up.
Neither did he the day after that.
Instead, the joint account we shared began lighting up with transaction notifications.
One after another.
Couple's down jackets.
Thermal winter sets.
Wool socks.
A sled.
The list went on.
Without warning, a memory surfaced.
Once, long ago, we had gone to Antarctica together.
It had been one of the rare times when things still felt… almost right.
But somehow, Celeste found out.
And she followed us there.
When she arrived, she was dressed in nothing more than a thin sweater, her entire body trembling violently from the cold. Her lips were pale, tinged blue, her breathing uneven.